Questionable Nights, Questionable Hours
by Of Miracles And Men
Summary: Vic Sage, or the Question finds himself on a regular night of patrol in Hub City and is in his usual paranoid conspiracy theorist mantra.


**A/N: For those of you that don't know, Vic's full name is Charles Victor Szaz; just to let you know because it comes into play later in the story.**

* * *

It was three in the morning.

It was three in the morning and it was raining.

It was three in the morning and it was raining and Vic Sage found himself outside in hub City, walking home as the rain formed valleys and canyons of water in the rise and falls of his fedora, the creases of his coat and streaked down, streamlining his coat and cold, falling down to Earth where they splattered on pavement and his shoes rippled puddles, causing them to shimmer away the reflections of dirty, dusty neon signs that flickered, and cloudy, dark skies that blotted out the moon and stars.

Vic Sage thought about the time as he walked, his hand stuffed in his pockets, cold leather from his gloves causing discomfort against the thin layer of clothing that separated his legs from them, but he chose to ignore this over other things.

_Three in the morning,_ he thought as water began to drizzle down from the point of his well-worn and well-used fedora where it tapered in the front, _an hour of superstition. Common belief that demons and wraiths would walk the street. An hour when they would prey upon the innocent and the weak. _

As he continued to walk, it was with the dim realization that he was the only one out on the street at the time, and made a mental note of that.

_Melodramatic, _he added, _but it might get a point across to punks looking for something easy to play on. I have patrol. Priorities first. _

He passed a bank, overlooking the street from the center of it, looking rather dismal in the nighttime, as rain drenched her sides and ran down her columns, washing her faded white walls and falling upon her windows with wanton glee, and stole a glance at the electronic LED clock by its logo, informing him it was a very early three oh four, dim and flickering like every other broken, half-rate sign in town.

Four blocks to go until he was home, out of the rain; it was rather unhealthy to do otherwise—after all, it should be common knowledge about the pig glands.

Vic continued, gaze turning from the clock to the darkness of the street as he continued down, and the water slowly began to bleed through his fedora and the back of his scalp began to feel the slightest bit damp with the steady trickle of water that began to slither down to the base of his neck, discomfort increasing as his shoes, caked with mud and water, paced down the road.

And that was when the shriek of the bank alarm tore through the night, petulant and unending, and he turned automatically with a grumble of apprehension mingling with the faintest irritation.

So much for disinfecting as quickly as possible from the pig glands.

* * *

The rain was getting worse.

It was three fifteen, and there had been eight of them, with sluggish movements and even slower movement and great, ape-like faces that had caved in tremendously with the gentlest punch; they had all had outdated guns and dirty, wet, squeaking sneakers with aglets (was there nothing that the clueless, consuming public would not stoop to in a mad, sweaty dash to reach the top?) that shone in the luminescent light of the bank window, and generally horrendous body odor exponentially increased by the smell of wet dog generated by the rain.

Vic was irritable, but his mood was salvageable, and he tipped his head as he walked, so the water would spill out from the bill in his fedora, falling in fat, transparent droplets that splashed on the ground and sunk in, disappearing as quickly as they came.

Reluctantly, as he reached a blind spot where the video cameras could not see him or any sign that he was ever there, he produced his hands from his pockets, gloved and coated with a good amount of blood, to the rain, to clean them off as well (though he would most certainly sterilize them as soon as he got home, goodness knew what the rain and the contamination of pig glands would do to it).

He waited, patiently, watching as the bright, poignant red blood began to run off and drizzle away with the water, down to earth, and noticed with vague interest how the red droplets joined the transparent and sunk into the ground, not quite sinking into the pavement and washing away as easily the water did.

No matter. At least six of those eight men were now in possession of fractured jaws or no longer in possession of their molars, especially the one who had attempted to sneak up on him from behind; he would be eating with a straw for the considerable, foreseeable future.

When all the blood had run off and away, down onto the pavement or washed away by rain, he continued his walk home, a walk a little more brisk in pace and propelled now by a rush of adrenaline that was not yet fading.

Two and half blocks to go. He would take the shortcut to get home; after all, most homeless people that resided there were docile psychics, caused to be so by being in contact with the spirit world for so long after being involved so easily with human excrement and garbage and the occasional alcohol, or so the story went.

In the darkness of the alleyways, he found a peace from the rain that danced over the awning in the alley, a juxtaposed rhythm that grated and calmed at the same time.

_And for the weak of mind increases the uncontrollable urge to urinate._ He added.

Trash crumpled and folded underneath his feet as he descended down the street and mingled with the snores of the homeless as he maneuvered down the darkness, palming the wall plastered in old graffiti.

The snoring of a small figure shuddered as she rolled over in the sleeping bag she had, next to a larger figure, presumably a guardian, as Vic turned his head to look, cautious, but relaxed and went on his way, passing as well the glowing embers of a trashcan where a dying fire sat, lying in wait.

_Fire hazard, possibility of third-degree burns and, with cotton blankets and sleeping bags like these, possible asphyxiation from smoke and imminent death. _

_Also, a surefire way to let __**them**__ know we are ripe for the picking. _

He rounded the corner as the large, not smallish figure by the trashcan sat up with a yawn and bumped into it with the gentle force of a bull and loud thud of hollow metal.

Vic only had to smell the smoke, a half street down, and hear the cry of terror and pain, to turn on his heel and see the great plume of flame, red and orange and a bright, blinding yellow on the man's sleeping bag, as he writhed and shoved and screamed and shouted while the smallish figure of the girl who was by him stood and howled with tears of the shattered illusion of somewhat security, and did not hesitate as he tore off his coat, drenched by the rain, and pushed past the girl with all the urgency in the world and no time to spare.

First, for the fire that spilled upon a sleeping bag and which was now beginning to pick up in volume, consuming air and smoke, and slapped his coat upon it, madly, quickly, efficiently, until there was nothing more left than damp embers of what once was, and then, for the man, who was howling in pain for his leg had been caught in the fire and Vic could smell the acrid, burning flesh.

He didn't have to be a doctor to know this man needed immediate medical attention, medical knowledge he did not possess. And although he knew hospitals were all inked to demon cults, there was nothing he could do but get this man to one as soon as possible.

After making sure the man was breathing, Vic turned to the girl, who had not seen his face in the firelight for he had turned away, and saw only shadow and a savior, and asked, "Is he your father?"

"My uncle." She replied simply, and he nodded, thinking.

"Is he going to be all right?" she whimpered, and the tears that had dripped away in shock at his sudden appearance threatened to resurface.

"Does he wear shoes with aglets?" Vic asked.

She blinked, bright eyes wide in the shadow of the alley. "No."

"Then he'll be fine." Vic reassured her, and then turned back to her uncle, who was limp and muttering in shock and a night rather horribly spent, and stooped down to pick him up.

* * *

It was a quiet car ride, taking him back four blocks to find his car in the abandoned alley he had left it in, and Vic had sympathetically turned on the radio for the little girl, to play a popular song that she, her name was Julie, hummed along to and held her uncle's hand in the back, patting his hand and checking on him every so often, as he lay back in a passenger seat, eyes glazed over and face pale, double chins trembling with a light sheen of sweat.

The hospital was a few streets down, and Vic would glance up at the rearview mirror to see how he was doing, and also to see the little girl, cheeks caked with dirt and dust from the street floor, but eyes still bright and innocent.

_Unaware of the world around her even though she lives at the bottom. Optimistic. Sad. Helena might like her._

"What's your name?" Julie asked, and Vic's hand tensed on the wheel, nervous, and although the child was just a child and her uncle in a world beyond all senses, he couldn't help but be on edge.

It passed, gradually, and faded, as did the minor pulse of adrenaline that coursed about his veins.

"Charles."

"Charles?"

"Yes."

Her face seemed to soften, from curiosity and wondering, to musing, and she nodded. "Okay."

Even though she thought he couldn't see, he saw her smile from the angle of the rearview mirror, and then focused on driving to the hospital.

It had been a brief check-in at the hospital, after which Vic threatened the sullen-looking receptionist who had more attitude than necessary and promised he would confiscate all of her chewing gum and hair dye if she didn't, although knew that if he did he would be committing the greater good, and promised to stay in touch if she didn't get Julie and her uncle a doctor soon.

As he had turned to leave, from the bright, glaring lights of the ER and uncomfortable, radioactive (he was sure of it) plastic chairs, he had felt something tug upon his charred jacket and looked back at Julie, who stared up at him and regarded his faceless countenance for the first time as he regarded her dirty, cherubic one as she stood barefoot on the cracked tile of the hospital room.

"Thank you." She said, simply, with the gentle desire of a child who wishes to see their unexpected friend one day but know they never will, and gave him a weak, tired smile that betrayed the joy in life she had for everything, the little innocent thing.

Vic tipped his fedora and when she blinked, had disappeared out the swinging ER doors and betrayed the nature of the torrential rain outside, followed by the screech of tires on wet pavement that followed after police sirens in the distance, the only trace that he had been there at all a few stray puddles and muddy, trackless footprints.

* * *

It was six in the morning, and there was light descending above the horizon of the city line as Vic returned home, drenched to the bone, in a charred jacket, muddy, gloves once more bloody, and a fedora with a noticeable dent in it that he had not bothered to correct.

Helena wrinkled her nose as he strode into the bedroom, unbelieving of how a man could only be gone for a few hours and smell like he had waded in trash for his whole life, and watched, groggy and yawning, as he took off his coat and tossed it on the table, and then took off his hat, revealing his matted, unkempt black hair that he ran his hands through and made no attempt to organize in any way whatsoever.

"Just _what_ do you do when you're gone?" she groaned, the red sheets of the bed spilling over her reclining figure as she propped herself up on an elbow, looking him up and down as he walked to the bedside, undoing his tie and dropping it to the floor with a small _pap_ on the rug.

"There was a little girl. And a hospital. Fire. Bank and aglets. Later, drug dealing. Had to settle loose ends." Vic said.

Helena stared at him for a good, long second.

"Why do I even try?"

"Because you're curious. And curiosity is a dangerous thing." Vic explained, unbuttoning the top few buttons to his shirt, allowing his body to breathe after the patrol.

"Is that a challenge?" she smirked, and Vic noted how seductive she looked in that moment, how she was poised on the bed, the bed sheets leaving not much to the imagination, how she smiled at him, that look in her eyes betraying the carnal desires that commanded her so.

Slowly, slowly, he leaned in to her, and her smirk grew broader as their distance between them began to close and their faces were only mere centimeters away from each other.

"First," Vic said, "sleep."

Then he climbed into bed, rolled over away from her, and did as he had said.

Helena stared again, and then, when it had sunk in that she wasn't going to get her way, sighed dramatically and rolled over, her back facing his, temper simmering below the surface.

She was _so_ not going to let him top when he woke up.


End file.
